‘Bastien-Lepage was so closely in sympathy with his subjects you felt you became part of the world he painted.’
That was Joey’s view.
Florence wasn’t so sure.
She said the perspective from which Bastien-Lepage viewed his subjects was often quite high, just above the figures, rather than on the same level, as if he was highlighting them.
‘Like Rodin, you mean?’ Joey asked.
Florence’s point had reminded Joey of Rodin, a famous story about Rodin, the greatest sculptor since Michelangelo, who was theatrical as well as realistic, because hadn’t Rodin – to get the unusual perspective he wanted – climbed a stepladder before beginning his sculpture of the Pope? And the Pope, of course, did not particularly approve of Rodin going up a stepladder in the presence of His Holiness.
‘No, no, no, Pope above,’ the Pope said, ‘Monsieur Rodin below.’
‘All right,’ Rodin growled, ‘you go up the ladder then.’
Florence laughed, while Gilbert (feeling all this was a bit over his head) compiled a steady break of twenty-three. Even so, he now knew that when Laura Knight and Alfred Munnings, come rain or come shine, strode down to the cove to attack their canvases, they carried with them the spirit of a Frenchman from Lorraine called Jules Bastien-Lepage.
‘And he died very young,’ Florence said.
‘Your shot,’ Gilbert said to Joey, pointing at the cue ball.
While Joey studied the options and played, Gilbert sat next to Florence, so close to her hands and her face, only inches away, which was a perspective he greatly liked.
Skies you could reach up and touch.
Reynard on the Rocks
When Joey and Florence arrived, in high spirits, at Jory’s hotel for this game of billiards, Gilbert was lying on his bed up in his room. Tired as a rag from a stomach upset he was feeling more than a bit sorry for himself, but the news that Florence was waiting downstairs made him leap off his bed, clean his teeth and make the effort.
Gilbert could never be down in the dumps for long, and there was his young friend Joey refilling his pipe from the humidor, there was Joey so civilised and charming even when losing, and there was his wonderful sister, Florence. ‘One day,’ Gilbert thought, listening to the Bastien-Lepage art lesson, ‘I’ll tell them both about Sammy.’ He had never spoken about his young brother, had never been able to, not to anyone, and oh, it would be so good to share his loss, perhaps on a Sunday walk to Mousehole or on a picnic, with the hamper open at their side and the ocean behind her back, with Florence listening, and if she listened that would help him so much to bear it, when who should pop up again like a jack-in-the-box?
‘Have you heard about Munnings?’ Joey asked, striking a match and sucking hard on his pipe.
‘What about Munnings?’ Florence said.
‘That he’s offended Harold Knight again?’ Gilbert offered.
‘No.’
‘That he’s burnt down his studio?’ Florence suggested.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he had,’ Gilbert laughed.
‘No,’ Joey said, aware his audience was nicely hooked, ‘no, I’m talking about the business with the fox.’
‘What fox business?’
‘Well, they’re all talking about it down in The Wink. Some farmers were in there when I called, they saw it all, from start to finish, and quite full of it all they were. Amazing business!’
‘Amaze us,’ Florence said, sitting very still in her seat. And she listened to the fox story at much the same time as A.J. Munnings, the man himself and dressed to kill, was walking into The Wink to an admiring bar, where he ordered drinks for all. As usual there was a small problem (he had no money) but he mentioned that little detail somewhat later and ‘paid’ for his drinks with a series of drawings done there and then on the spot, plus a promise to Jory that he would come back within the week and paint a full-size picture of the premises which would sell for a fortune. (It did.) The landlord and the painter shook hands on the bargain, while the locals gathered like a swarm of bees around the man himself.
‘Tell us about the fox,’ Mr Jory asked, putting his first pint in front of Alfred.
‘Yes, go on, Mr Munnin’s.’
‘Tom Mollard’s bin in, so we do know a bit.’
‘Tom Mollard!’ the painter barked. ‘Don’t mention Mollard to me!’
‘We’m ’eard a bit, that’s all; just enough to wet the whistle.’
Munnings raised his hands.
‘No, no … not now, not in good drinking time.’
While they all protested he drained half his drink.
‘But it’s true, what we’m ’eard? ’Tis true?’
‘Depends what you heard,’ Munnings said, smacking his lips.
‘Easier if you tell us. Get’n from the ’osse’s mouth then, don’t us?’
‘Go on, Mr Munnin’s.’
To the click of billiard balls Florence listened; to the click of dominoes and the suck of pipes, the bar listened.
A large turnout of the Western Foxhounds had been running towards Morvah. With Munnings among the front runners, they were moving fast from parish to parish, hugging headlands, sailing over stubble, running across the granite country, all across the undulating moor, not far from Zennor. The fox was well in their sights. The front riders, in high spirits and sure of a kill, leapt a low wall. A.J. was riding hard just behind the huntsman, Tom Mollard, and stride for stride with Jack Stone, the whip.
Their quarry was tiring. That was clear. Unable to reach cover, the fox suddenly turned right in desperation and ran down to the cliff, where Munnings spotted him way below, small and brown, crouched into a ball on some jutting rocks which hung over the sea.
The leaders dismounted. Munnings was first off his horse, then Jack the Whip, a tall man with a black beard, and the two of them very slowly and very carefully crawled down the cliff face, holding on to deep-rooted tufts until they were just above the curled-up fox. All Munnings could see below him was the fox, the rocks and the boiling foam.
Just as Munnings turned to tell Jack that enough was enough and they should call it a day, Jack suddenly stretched his arm right down and flicked the fox sharply with the lash of his whip. The fox barked and jumped right out into the sea. Munnings stumbled to his feet and swore bloody murder and nearly fell into the boiling foam himself.
By now the whole hunt was standing above them on the clifftop: all the hounds, all the riders dismounted, all were looking down on A.J. and Jack and the little fox swimming for dear life, the little fox lifted up and thrown back by the swell, its brown fur now black. For five minutes or more the fox took on the elements, an unbearable tension for Munnings, who was kneeling on a rock calling out encouragement, ‘Keep fighting,’ he roared, ‘keep fighting, Reynard, you little blighter, God bless you,’ when a large wave suddenly picked up the fox and seemed to place him with a careful hand on a wide, safe rock. Munnings rose to his feet, arms aloft, and cheered.
The fox rested a moment. Then, head down, shanks sucked in, sodden and reduced to a small greyhound, he shook himself and started very slowly to climb or clamber up, ledge by ledge, until, too weary to be wary, he once again was trapped in a narrowing crevice. This time his eyes went blank and his nose went slowly down. The fight had gone out of him.
The whip saw his chance.
‘Come on, Mr Munnin’s, let’s get him.’
‘No!’
‘But he’s trapped, he’s done in.’
‘No,’ Munnings roared at Jack and the waves and the assembled hunt above. ‘No, leave him, for God’s sake leave him.’
‘We must get him, or what’ll Tom say?’
The whip pointed up at the scarlet coat and the black cap of Tom Mollard silhouetted against the sky.
Munnings teetered, lost his balance, and fell but just held on to the edge of the rock face. Bruised and still stretched out on the rock, he shouted he didn’t give a bugger what Tom said, the fox had run for his life, saved h
imself, swum for it, climbed for it, damn near died for it, and that was good enough for anyone – let alone Tom Mollard.
Munnings rose to his feet and stood defiantly between the fox and Jack.
‘And,’ he roared, ‘you’re not going to get him out!’
The whip climbed back to the top and, panting for breath, told Tom Mollard the full story. Tom heard him out, stony-faced, then said that was the last time, the very last time, Mr Munnings of Suffolk would ride with the Western hounds. And off they trooped home without him.
‘That’s quite a story,’ Gilbert said, ‘it really is.’
‘Isn’t it!’ Joey added. ‘And so typical of A.J. from start to finish.’
‘You mean it isn’t quite true?’ Florence asked evenly. When she said this, Gilbert felt a slight shock in his hands, and Joey coloured, blurting out, ‘Of course it’s true, Blote, ask the huntsmen who were there, it’s as true as we’re playing billiards.’
‘I’m sure it’s true,’ Gilbert said, ‘why would anyone make it all up?’
Florence smiled an unruffled smile.
‘So Captain Evans and Mr Munnings both save animals?’
Gilbert was not sure if he himself was now being mocked, yet he could see no mockery at all on her face.
‘Oh, mine was small beer by comparison. And I must apologise again for ever mentioning it.’
‘No, I’m glad you mentioned it, death by drowning and death by poison are both terribly dramatic, don’t you agree?’
Unable to frame a response, the men played inconsequentially in constrained silence. When Joey broke the long silence it was with an exaggerated, overcompensating heartiness:
‘Look, Gilbert, we’d like you to join us for supper soon, wouldn’t we?’
‘Very much,’ Florence said. ‘As soon as possible.’
‘The sooner the better!’ Joey exclaimed.
‘And I’d very much like to come, thank you.’
‘And let’s ask A.J. as well, shall we?’ Joey went on. ‘Then it’ll be even more fun, and Florence can question him further over the fox.’
‘Why on earth should I do that? I merely wanted to know if you both believed the story.’
What no one knew was what happened in the hours after the hunt had deserted Munnings on the rocks near Morvah.
He sat alone in the same place, with the wind bending the bracken and his shirt drying on his back. He sat there, fighting his anger, until the rioting behind his eyes abated. Above all, foxes should be respected. Who on earth did these ignorant sods think they were? And did these ignorant sods never think, in the vain glory of their chase, why there were so many legends and stories and fables about foxes? What about Reynard the Fox, and what about other foxes’ encounters with Chauntecleer the Cock, Tibert the Cat, Bruin the Bear and Tsengrin the Wolf? Why did they think there were figures of foxes carved in churches all over East Anglia, not that these ignorant sods even knew where East Anglia was? The fox was a hunter and he was hunted; he was a beast and a king, real and fabulous, and that was why he, Alfred Munnings, second son of a Suffolk miller, had kept this particular Reynard alive – Reynard the Triumphant – because that little fellow stuck out there on the rock a moment ago was a triumph of the spirit. An inspiration.
Feeling much better after his reflection on ignorant sods and fearless foxes, A.J. started to ride home, talking to Grey Tick about fools and foxes, and stopping as and when on the way for hot gin hollands. In one pub named, as luck would have it, The Fox and Grapes he hunched by the fire lost in thought about a paintable girl until he overheard some youngsters, mere boys, well, undergraduates by the sound of them, talking about Omar Khayyam.
Omar Khayyam?
There were three undergraduates in the pub: a ginger-haired one, a bearded one with a pipe, and, lastly, a pale exhumation. They all talked with heated warmth about Omar Khayyam’s merits. A.J. listened to this for a while then uncoiled his legs, stretched back on the settle and called over to them.
‘Who’s this Omar you keep talking about, then, an Arab horse thief?’
The undergraduates looked at each other, then looked at the rough mud-bespattered rider, and decided they had not quite heard the question. So Alfred glared at the three of them in turn and repeated the question more loudly. Unable to ignore him now, the ginger-haired one coughed and said politely, ‘Um, no, he’s not, no.’ He glanced at his colleagues. ‘He’s … not an Arab horse thief.’
This was followed by some laughter. Munnings decided he would enjoy himself as well.
‘So who is he? I couldn’t help hearing, and I don’t know who he is.’
‘It’s … it’s the title of a work, a translation in point of fact, a version by Edward Fitzgerald. From the Persian.’
‘Sorry, never heard of him either,’ Alfred said. ‘Who’s he? The Persian?’
Dear-God smiles escaped from the undergraduates; small smiles of complete complicity flitted from face to face.
‘Fitzgerald,’ the bearded one spoke even more carefully, as if a dangerous animal was out on the loose, ‘Fitzgerald is a poet … a great poet. The Rubaiyat is an allegory.’
‘Oh, poet, is he?’ Munnings was pleased. ‘Landlord, fill the young gentlemen’s pots, there’s a good chap, thank you, and do draw yourself another, and then the young gentlemen can recite for us some of Omar by Edward Whoever and I must say I’m looking forward to hearing a bit of great poetry by a great poet, even if he is a Persian.’
Munnings settled himself down as an overattentive audience would, and his overattentive pause and the panic it created all around him was quite delightful.
‘I’m … we’ve …’ began the pale one. ‘I’m afraid we haven’t brought a copy of his work.’
A.J. forgivingly spread his hands, as if he would be the very last person in the world to criticise anyone for that.
‘Doesn’t matter, does it, just recite me some, give me what you might call a taster of old Omar. In English. Or Persian, if you prefer.’
At this, they looked cornered and went into a whispering huddle. For his part, A.J. patiently waited a while and then said:
‘But if it’s great stuff you can, surely? No? You can’t? Ah well. Does it rhyme? Can’t stand stuff that doesn’t!’
The remark about rhyme somewhat released the pressure on them and they reverted to their lighter tones; they may well have been unable to remember a line of poetry in English or Persian but at the very least they could all be critics.
‘Well, that’s rather bad luck on Paradise Lost,’ said the ginger-haired one.
‘And a bit of a pity about Shakespeare’s plays,’ said the pale one.
And these supposed put-downs led to some Oxford chortling.
‘Good stuff, rhyme,’ A.J. reasserted, ‘rhyme is the thing.’
While the landlord placed out another round of drinks there was something of a lull in which A.J. wiped off their ironic smiles by reciting the first fifty-two lines of Gray’s Elegy, and before the pale one could say Gosh that is actually quite something of a feat I must say, A.J. followed it up by giving them his favourite passages of prose, verbatim, from Surtees, and standing (ale in hand) with his back to the fire and with the landlord’s mouth agape, he finished ‘By way of a finale’ with a handsome swathe of Hiawatha,
‘By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,’ he added, with a patronising smile, ‘and he’s a fucking good poet too. From Portland, Maine, not Persia.’
They all ended the evening in tremendous fettle, all singing together, arms around each other’s shoulders, before A.J. (by way of payment) covered the black blinds in the bar with some chalk drawings of horses and young people drinking and the three young people in the drawings all had muzzy faces very like their own and were depicted toppling backwards in their chairs towards the floor, laughing as they fell, and they all loved that, and they all thought him one helluva fellow.
A.J. saluted them at the door before taking his big-stepping horse home very slowly to Lamorna.
Botticelli’s Venus
Before she left her London home for Lamorna, Florence Carter-Wood went into her father’s library, stretched right up on tiptoe and took down their large, leather-bound Atlas of Great Britain. She opened it out on her knees and sat very upright – it was a habit of hers to sit very still and very upright, a habit which immediately attracted Gilbert Evans, was noted by Harold Knight and copied, as the days went by, by Dolly – with the landscape of England beneath her hands. She turned and stroked each page, sliding her fingers over the western counties.
The West. The western counties felt so far away they might as well have been the Bahamas. Florence had, it is true, already travelled a good deal, but as far back as she could remember it had always been the same journey: from London to Carlisle and from Carlisle to London, from town to country house and back, and these journeys to the Cumbrian coast were always taken at much the same time of the year in much the same company. Until twenty she had led, she now realised, a well-guarded life.
To her, each page of the Atlas now seemed an open road, a possibility if not a temptation. She had money, and with Papa’s generous allowance where could she not go and what could she not do?
She stroked the map. Her fingers soon found the southwest tip of Cornwall, then traced a line down the map south from Penzance, along Mount’s Bay, to Newlyn, and then on to Paul and Mousehole, where die road seemed to wind and twist and turn. Mouse-hole? That sounded a strange place. It made her laugh. As for Lamorna, that did not sound English at all. La-mor-na could easily be a beach in the Bahamas, which Mousehole could not. But it was in Lamorna, Joey said, that the most wonderful and the most extraordinary people in the world were living.
Summer in February Page 8